


Arms Around Me (And I'm Home)

by Jaeh



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Martin's POV, One-Shot, Pining, let's be honest we don't grow tired of that, nikola kidnapping jon aftermath, unbetad we kayak like Tim, yes it's another one of those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh
Summary: Martin wonders how it would feel like to hug Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 233





	Arms Around Me (And I'm Home)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SneakyBread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyBread/gifts).



> This is Bread's fault. I snuck under my beta's nose to post this. Please think of this as my warm-up for Out of the Mouth of Babes. All mistakes mine. 
> 
> Title from Arms by Christina Perri, because that's part of my JonMartin playlist.

Martin wonders how it would feel like to hug Jon.

It mustn't be comfortable, he thinks, the man looks mostly skin and bones, all sharp angles and no curves.

But that's fine - Martin has all the softness they'll need. Even though there are moments when Martin may feel conscious about his physique, he also knows that he is damn cuddly and that is something that works in his favour.

He thinks about this more often than he should.

He watches as Jon yawns at his desk, obviously exhausted but refusing to let up on his seemingly never-ending work. Martin imagines himself pulling the archivist into his arms and letting him melt into Martin's soft jumper until the man finally rests. Instead, he hands his boss a cup of tea, and hopes its warmth hugs the archivist's soul.

Martin observes Jon as he walk-staggers across the corridors, cane in one hand, his other fingers trailing the walls as if he's memorizing the winding halls of the institute like a blind man would. Martin knows that he merely needs the support, and Martin longs to take those delicate-yet-callous fingers in his and envelop them in his palms and let the other man lean on him, as he should. 

He sees Jon tug at his salt-and-pepper hair in frustration at a particularly confusing statement, and Martin runs his hand through his own curls. How would it feel, Martin thinks, if he was the one who soothes the archivist with his thick, comforting fingers as he combs through those soft-looking locks?

Jon just raises this instinct in him that makes him want to protect. He doesn't want to save Jon, no, it isn't - he's not feeling like the other man's knight-in-shining-armour, that is more Tim's thing than his. Martin just wants to take care of Jon, wants to touch him and give him all the comfort he deserves, and more.

Martin gets his chance, one day. 

He's been very, very worried. A month. A whole bloody month. Elias never told them anything, instead leaving them anxious (Martin), angry (Tim and Melanie), and overly cautious (Basira).

It isn't like he could've saved Jon or anything, but it would have been nice not to have to fucking worry and wonder. The same hands that Martin wants to use to comfort also feel the need to smother and to protect, and he will not hesitate to do so if he is allowed.

But that is not what he needs to do right now. 

It's late, and everyone's left. It's just Martin, whose bag was already slung over his shoulder on his way out, and somehow Jon staggers into the Archives like a man who’s just come back from the dead. He looks thinner if that was even possible, and even if his skin somehow looks healthier, his pallor is sallow, and his eyes sunken. He breathes deeply and slowly, everything measured, like each step requires a mini-meditative exercise in order to happen. 

Then Jon tips forward, and Martin rushes to catch him.

He is lighter than Martin expected. The term 'deadweight' doesn't apply, which puzzles Martin - no one should be this light. Or maybe, Martin's just imagined differently, that the other man's weight would be a more comforting press against him, with angles poking him from all sides. 

This is like carrying a tiny, fragile bird in his arms, and if that doesn't make Martin's protective instincts scream. 

The other man's eyes flutter as Martin hurries to the cot in storage, and Jon does a full-bodied _flinch_ and Martin almost drops him. Jon is murmuring a litany of Nos and No Mores, and Martin makes hushing, calming sounds as he lowers the other man onto the makeshift bed.

Jon looks up, eyes filled with fear, until he realises who sat beside him. 

"Martin."

It's like all the tension in Jon's body dissipates with the name, and relief lights his entire face. Martin exhales, and smiles his best comforting expression. 

"Jon."

"I'm in the Institute."

"Yes."

"Good," Jon says, and he slings an arm on top of his eyes. "Good."

"Where - how -" Martin bites his lip, unsure how to ask. He wonders, and yet, seeing Jon, he's not sure if he wants to know.

"I was," Jon pauses. "Indisposed."

"You're not okay," Martin says matter-of-factly, and where he expects Jon to protest, the archivist merely nods. 

"I will be."

A part of Martin, the one who runs and hides and fears, wants to leave Jon. Let him be. Let him recuperate, he will be fine, he's said, and Jon hasn't really expressed that he needs Martin to stay.

Martin ruthlessly quashes this feeling like worms under his boot. 

"How can I help?" Martin asks.

Jon peers at Martin, and shakes his head. "You don't have to."

"I want to, and I will," Martin says. His tone is resolute, booking no argument.

Jon looks at him pensively. He licks his lips. 

"Have you ever wondered how toast feels when you slather butter all over it with a knife?"

Martin blinks at the non-sequitur. "No?"

Jon chuckles mirthlessly. It sounds wrong. "I don't have to wonder. Their - their hands were cold and unnatural. Plastic. Like rubbing a greasy bottle all over my-" he shudders, and Jon rubs his arms. 

Martin reacts. He places a hand on Jon's shoulder, as if to try and stop him from reliving whatever experience the other man is describing. He doesn't pretend to understand but instead tries to radiate soothing warmth. Jon will tell him in time, and he does not have to do it _now_.

The archivist leans in. Martin's reminded of a purring cat. "You're not - you're real, you're warm, you're _human_ ," Jon explains, and Martin breaks. 

He takes Jon in his arms, and it is everything and nothing like he imagined. 

It's like hugging corners, and yet... It's like coming _home_. Everything just _fit_ , and Martin locks that part of him that wishes and hopes away for now.

This is not the time to explore his own feelings. This is the time to provide comfort, to ease the pain.

Jon melts. He burrows, and Martin can feel hot tears soak into his jumper. They remain this way, and Martin doesn't say a word. Jon doesn't, either. After a while, the sobs quiet, and the man in Martin's arms loosens further, his breath now steady and deep. Martin adjusts their position, and they lie on a too-small cot, and he envelops Jon in a cocoon of safety. They remain, wrapped in each other, and in the morning, Martin will wake up alone in the cot, with a mug of tea and a packet of biscuits on a chair beside him as thanks.

But for tonight, Martin has this. _They_ have this, and they're safe, and nothing can take that away.


End file.
